"Success is counted sweetest
By those who ne'er succeed.
To comprehend a nectar
Requires sorest need."
—Emily Dickinson, "Success is counted sweetest"
I feel that the above stanza exemplifies a particular truth that someone can have when they find a "spark" in any hobby or commitment. From a young age, I found myself struggling daily with two vices: one was being coddled with some idea or retrospect that "I was sent to do God's work" (having some unidentifiable, indescribable moral purpose), and the necessity to be noticed and acknowledged by others. And at frequent times I failed at both, leaving myself to feel out of place with no reason to get up out of bed or do anything. It was more so a drifting on boat, day by day, until I either got devoured by the water or collapsed onto myself.
The "Gamebreaker" didn't occur until tenth grade, in which I had a class assignment due that involved some sort of "creative process." I just went "hey, might as well do a poem, it's short enough so I don't have to continuously smash my pea-sized head on my computer desk." And so I did. It was nothing special aside from a basic rhyme scheme and "OMG, LOVELY LOOKING/SOUNDING WORDS" printed on an 8.5 x 11 sheet. Turned it in, all neat, all done. No more. No more.
Only...there was more. I could have stopped there, but I didn't. Later that year an opportunity came to submit to a competition for high school students. It caught my eye. I spent all my free time working for it. Something came out of it. It was my first taste of prestige. It was my first taste of something that I felt I accomplished with my own intuition, and not having someone else helping me. It was:
Then, I remember feeling like I had something to stand for against the others who surpassed me by size, weight, physical and musical ability, and sociability. Hey, maybe I was a Darwin survivor after all! Maybe I could publish a book! Produce manuscripts! Become politically active! Have people shed a tear at the faintest whisper of my name when I'm gone! Maybe painters will depict me half-naked, eating a cluster of grapes while reciting poetry on a lion! And, as you could probably tell, this is where I fell.
Internally, I felt horrible. In addition to the false sense of ego I had attained from meaningless and subjective competitions, the aforementioned daily struggle had been replaced with writing. Writing this, writing that. Literally everything I looked at had to involve it in some way or else I wasn't working hard enough. I wasn't trying hard enough. I wasn't being good enough. I wasn't good enough. Then at last, I realized that I was the sucker the entire time:
I didn't know what else to do. I had made my persona to be embedded within this frame, and I didn't see a way out. I didn't even know if I even wanted a way out because of how deluded I became (or still am, just to a lesser degree). The successes ripened and decayed into failures and more failures to the point I stopped immediately and had all these mental blocks and could barely function and it was difficult even going outside.
In a sense, my line of thinking made me afraid of failing. If I wanted to do something once, I needed to be good at it immediately. And coupled with my anxiety, even the simplest of tasks became a life or death situation.
Now, I'm taking a further step back. With some needed self-reflection, other perspectives, and some helpful practices, I am beginning to re-imagine myself in ways I never had been able to due to being so preoccupied with writing. And although I can never promise I can be the angel I was when I was born (or before writing this article), I admit that I probably have come a long way from where I used to be.
So now: I promise not to have huge expectations of myself. If I do something, it should be because I want to at this moment and not because of the perceived happenings it could cause in the future. I can still write and not be compelled to become noticeable or famous for it. Of course, things work at different times, but never at that point again I will reach. Try new things, be horrible at them, and be merry.
(As of writing this, I have missed one phone call. I should probably go correct that now.)
